floating down the river
by damn expensive eggs
Summary: It's 2:44 in the morning and Chuck's shy bladder is acting up again. Mike Chilton to the rescue. With a pep talk. Pretty mild, innocent Mike/Chuck. Lots of mentions of, well, peeing. Wouldn't read this if pee makes you uncomfortable.


wrote this without even knowing where i was going, OH WELL! enjoy the pee talk.

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Peeing, for Chuck, is no walk in the park. It's not anything in the park. He wishes it were, though—he wishes he knew where this magical park was, this fantastical wonderland where everything is so easy, and he can just piss wherever he wants. The park doesn't exist—of course it doesn't, who is he kidding? Peeing, for Chuck, is a walk in the abyss. He knows the abyss, he knows it well. It's dark, smelly; smells like disappointment, is what. Smells like he's thinking to himself, _"I'm gonna do it this time. I'm gonna pee in sixty seconds or less. No dilly-dallying. No nonsense! The peeing is happening."_

But then, the determination fades. He cannot pee.

And that, to Chuck, is the abyss.

The pee builds up inside him over the course of twenty-four hours—he feels it long before the end of this timeframe, but he ignores its desperate calls. It's too early—he'll hold up the gang. Even worse, trying to think about peeing when he's got others waiting on him. He will not make a bathroom trip unless no one is around, and his bladder is bursting at the seams.

It's 2:44 AM when it happens.

The only lights in the room are the neon glows of screens, numbers and pixels lining the walls, bouncing off the transparent green of 7-Up bottles and silver chip bag interiors. He's had a whole day's worth of drinking—practically liters.

He's bursting.

The pee must go.

There is only one tolerable bathroom in the Burners' garage. The other one is perpetually backed up and frankly, no one's had the guts to open the door yet. Texas, almost. But the stench was a stronger punch in the face than he could bear. So they shut the door tight and Jacob proceeded to douse the doorframe in yellow tape: "CRIME SCENE DO NOT CROSS."

So, there is one bathroom shared by six people. It is inevitably chaos, but not at this hour of the night where everyone is passed out cold in their bedrooms. Chuck figures he's safe. Safer than he'll ever be at any other hour—free to pee for as long as it takes.

He even tries to recall watching everyone else drink that day—when did they last drink? And how much? When did they last pee? To keep himself positive, he convinces himself his peeing time is not synced up with anyone else's whatsoever. This is all going excellently so far, extremely excellent, indeed.

_I'm good,_ he thinks. _I'm good. I'm good. Everything's good._

He creeps toward the bathroom, past all the other closed doors—well, everyone's is closed except for Mike's, who needs his door ajar just in case "there's trouble afoot"!

Chuck tiptoes past a quietly whirring Roth, careful not to wake him up with his big-footed, floppy steps.

He's made it to the bathroom in one piece. He lets out a relieved sigh. He also checks three—no, four—times if the door is locked.

He pulls down his pants, and takes a _seat_, because he is going to be here awhile.

He leans on his knobby knees. Bounces his legs up and down. Stares at the tiled floor and seethes at the one out-of-place tile—one white standing out in the middle of a sea of pastel green and blue squares. He hates it. He hates it so much, he thinks about it long enough to distract him from peeing.

_Right. Peeing. Yes. Peepeepee._

He thinks about waterfalls. Fountains. Sewers. _Oh, God. Sewers have rats. Mutant rats. Oh, jeez. What if there's a rat climbing up from the toilet pipes and into my ass right now._

He stands up and looks in the toilet. He's good again! For now.

He sits back down and resumes the running water process. Waterfalls. Fountains. Not sewers. Pouring drinks into cups. Drinking drinks. Excreting drinks. _Yes. That's the goal. 7-Up can't run in my veins forever._

He feels a drip, and smiles from excitement.

Then, there's a violent banging on the door, and Chuck is scared and angry for each of these reasons respectively: the knocking was so vigorous and awful, but not vigorous and awful enough to scare the piss out of him.

Chuck hears, "You gonna be long in there, blondie? Texas needs a tinkle."

_How the fuck does he know it's me?_"Uh. Uh, yeah, Tex, just give me a sec."

_A sec. As if this is going to take a sec. The abyss is swallowing me whole. And Texas has a vacation home in the abyss. But he just wants to pee in it, and I'm in his way. Someone really needs to teach you not to try to piss in other people's vacation homes, Charles. You're only digging yourself a deeper ditch._

"Ya okay in there, blondie, or am I gonna have t' punch this door in so you don't flush yourself down the toilet? I can do that. Unless you already flushed yourself down, then Texas doesn't know what to tell ya."

Chuck curled up into himself. Just in case Texas did punch the door down, he wouldn't get a very ample view of what was going on, maybe. "How do you even know it's me in here?"

"You just said so, didn't ya?"

"Well, gimme some privacy, huh, Tex? Jeez."

"I was just askin' if you were gonna be any long 'cause I don't think the floor is gonna wanna handle a big ol' Texas leak—"

"OKAY, JUST—! Stop talking! This is enough pressure as it is!" Chuck is even farther from his goal than when he started. He thought he was safe, oh, boy, did he think he was ready this time. Leave it to Texas to put a stop to the dream train. The dream train is making a detour. It's stopping in a dry desert where no one pees, ever. Pee doesn't even exist. It is a mirage in the distance. The oasis. But it's not fucking real.

"Go away, Texas!" Chuck cries, less worried about what's going to happen to him because the only thing separating him and Texas is the quadruple-checked locked bathroom door. Not that Texas would actually tear the door down if he needed to piss that badly.

Would he?

"Texas is waitin' right here."

"_Texas_is leaving Chuck alone because Chuck can't pee with people around him!"

"Texas isn't around Chuck, Texas is behind the door!"

"IT'S THE SAME BASIC—" He puts his face in his hands. _No, no, no. Noooo._He's trapped. He's trapped, with his pants down, with Texas waiting on him, and there's a fucking stupid white tile in the floor. There is nothing he did to deserve this. Maybe it was that extra order of fries he indulged in, or that time he peeked at Mike changing, or that time Texas gave him a protein shake and said he loved it, but it actually tasted like cough medicine and liquefied punches in the face, so he dumped it into the nearest sink when Tex wasn't looking? Must have been the last one. Maybe the all the power in the shake would have gone to his bladder. Oh, the regret.

Then, Chuck hears more tame mumbling outside. Texas speaks louder, but the other voice is calm and—kind of exhausted. There's a light knocking on the door.

"Chuck? It's Mike. Are you okay?"

_An angel is among us._Chuck curls out of himself. "Is Texas still there?"

"Yeah."

"Tell him to leave."

Mike nods at the door. "Sorry, Tex. You gotta run."

Texas frowns. "Where's Texas gonna empty his tank?"

Mike shrugs. "That's on you, buddy. Chuck needs his time."

Chuck hears rustling and shuffling, quiet arguing, but then Mike promises, "He's gone."

"Okay." Chuck loosens himself on the toilet. He tries to forget the ugly tiles. "I can't pee."

"I know, buddy," Mike says. "You're just gonna have to try harder." He yawns.

Chuck squirms in his seat. "I've been trying! But I mean—there was Texas, and the rats, and the stupid—_tiles_!"

Mike yawns even longer, leaning his forehead against the door. "I. Have no idea what you're talking about, Chuckles. Are you ever gonna pee?"

"Yeah," Chuck says timidly, "Probably."

Mike takes a seat on the floor, still leaning on the door, now closing his eyes. "No, no, no," he says. "Say 'definitely.'"

"Definitely."

"Okay. Good. How do you… usually get yourself to pee?"

Chuck thinks. "I dunno, I never actually remember what gets me to pee, it just kinda happens. But it's not happening this time, Mikey."

"Shh. You can pee. It's all gonna come flowin' out soon. Like the Amazon. Gosh, I wish I could see the Amazon one day."

Chuck thinks he's about to drip, but to no avail. He just agrees with Mike. "Yeah. Never used to be as polluted as it is now, though. Shame, huh."

"Wish I could see Africa. The jungles. The animals. You know, the Nile is one of the only rivers in the world that flows northward…" Mike yawns, smacking his lips. "Longest in the world. Wish could see, don't you?"

Chuck feels a flow going on. It's working—it's working! "I know what'cha mean, Mikey."

"Maybe one day we could drive down to see the Mississippi river. Just the two of us. Someday when we know…" A shorter yawn. "… everything's peaceful in Motorcity. We can drive wherever you want, Chuck. See all the rivers. Maybe if you saw all the rivers, it'd help you pee better."

Chuck knows Mike's exhaustion is the cause for this logic. But it's great. He's slowly flowing. "I'd love to do that, yeah. But I dunno. It seems like it'd be a long time from now."

"Ah, Chuckles. You don't know that. We could leave as soon as tomorrow, leave this all behind…"

"You're not thinkin' straight, Mikey. You're tired."

"No, no, I'm serious. Roadtrip, pal. We could do it."

Chuck's flow is speeding up now. Finally. "You should go back to bed."

"No! Noooo. I gotta. I gotta help you pee, Chuckles. Where's the pee. Are you peeing?"

Chuck lightly laughs. "Yes, Mikey. I'm peeing."

"Ohmmygosh. That is so awesome. Wow. I am so glad I helped you through this, Chuck. Are you sure you. Got everythin' under control? I mean. I gotta. Bed. You pee? Is okay? I know is no… walk in the park for ya. When we travel, we can look at all th' parks too. Ya know? The nice ones. You like parks, Chuckles?"

Chuck's almost done with his business. "I haven't been to many real parks, I guess it'd be nice to see one that hasn't been half or totally destroyed to smithereens."

"Yes! Good, Chuck, good. We go to park. We see rivers. And you pee good because you can do anything. Okay. You can do anything."

Chuck flushes, washes his hands with the flowery-scented liquid soap. He opens the door, and Mike falls to his feet, half-asleep.

"Hey, Mike," he says, "I peed."

Mike's eyes still shut, perched against Chuck's legs, he smiles. "All hail Lord Chuckles. You did it, buddy."

Chuck tries to pick Mike up by the shoulders. Mike gets the message and stands up, wobbling, clinging to Chuck's thin arms. Chuck nods at Texas, who's been waiting in his bedroom. "It's all yours, man," he whispers, Texas wasting no time running into the bathroom.

Chuck brings Mike to his bed, Mike mumbling things about pee and rivers and mountains.

"Did we do it?" he asks once he's lying down. "Did we climb the mountain…"

"Yes, Mikey. We climbed the mountain."

"Are we gonna climb a real mountain one day…"

Chuck thinks. "Yeah. Probably."

"No, no, no. Say definitely."

Chuck covers him with the blanket. "Definitely."


End file.
